


Made New

by coveredbyroses



Series: The Porn Wars [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, F/M, Facials, Master/Slave, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shoe Kink, Smut, Tumblr: spnkinkbingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 20:21:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18534802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: Funny how quickly your life can change when you face off with an Archangel.





	Made New

**Author's Note:**

> *Warnings for Non/Dub-Con

It’s almost like you aren’t even in your own naked body - or maybe you are, but there’s a level of control missing here. It’s your muscles working, your slick cunt dragging sticky smears over the polished toe of his shoe, but it’s like one of those third-person dreams where you’re just watching yourself.

Michael is watching you too; chin tucked to his chest as he sips amber whiskey from glittering crystal. “Look at you,  _slave,_ ” he says, voice glossy. “Just yesterday you were such a fierce little fighter…” He sighs out the burn after a spicy swallow, then smacks his lips. “And now?” he chuckles deep, tilts his foot up so that the firm leather presses right into your pulsing clit. “Now look what you’ve been reduced to…You’re no better than a  _dog -_ a bitch in heat.”

You hear his words, you do, but it’s like they fizzle into a scattered warmth once they bypass your ears. Your mind isn’t really processing them, it’s so dulled up with buttery pleasure. The carpet rubs little red burns into your knees as you grind against him. You want to reach up, want to feel that hot hardness tucked away under those coal slacks, but you can’t because your wrists are cuffed behind you. So, you keep moving, keep grinding; chasing that carnal pleasure that’s somehow the most important thing anymore.

You come keening and shuddering after four more rocks of your hips. You’re still undulating, wet folds humping over leather and shoelaces. You finally still, forehead tipping against the hard muscle of his thigh, just above the knee.

“Well,” he says, honey-thick. “Clean it up.”

“Yes, Master,” you breathlessly whisper, kneeing your way back so you can bend at the waist to drag your tongue along the shiny leather. You groan at the tang of yourself, pausing to suck at the laces.

The scratchy drag of a zipper pulls your head up, and your mouth starts to water at the way Michael’s fingers are curled around the fat heft of his shaft. Your lips part as you drag in a thick breath, watching as he starts to stroke. He’s still got the drink in his hand, and he tosses his head back with the last swallow, then clunks the empty glass on the end table just next to him.

Fresh, wet heat gathers between your legs as your eyes pin to his hand. He’s pumping slow and languid, and god you want him inside you. He’d feel so good and heavy on your tongue; would fill you up so thick. You whimper.

He’s jerking faster now, free hand cupping and tugging at his nuts, and his eyes are smudged little cracks in his face. His lips are so full; so soft and slack as heavy breaths and velvety moans push over them.

“On your knees,” he orders suddenly, voice tight and airy. You comply, wobbling a little with the lack of balance, but you get there.

And you know what he wants.

He’s pumping fierce and fast, and if you weren’t so simple-minded at the moment, you’d wonder how he even knew to touch himself like that.

You close your eyes and stretch your tongue at the first tight jerk of hips, and then a hot, wet stripe streaks over the bridge of your nose. Your tongue catches the next, then your left brow and eyelashes. You let your eyes peel open at the press of hot, slick flesh at your lips. Your jaw drops low, moaning around the warm, come-coated shaft as he pushes inside. You slick your tongue all around, hollow your cheeks as he drags back out, careful to suck every salty inch clean.

“So obedient,” Michael smirks, redressing. You beam, licking a milky glob from your bottom lip. He crouches down, swipes his thumb through the warm, creamy wet still clinging to your cheek, then pushes it into your mouth, rubs the pad over your tongue. “Who would’ve thought?” The Archangel pulls a handkerchief from his suit jacket to wipe the rest of you clean, and grins. “You know you’re ruined for them, don’t you? The Winchesters. They won’t want you now, not like this.” He carelessly drops the cloth to the floor, then reaches up to tuck your hair behind your ears. “But you don’t need to worry about that - about your old life.” He cups you with both hands under the jaw. “Do you?”

“No, Sir,” you breathe out, smile soft and lazy. “I love my new life.”


End file.
